Of Red Jeans and Masturbation
by AngelisIgniRelucent
Summary: It's just, Blaine's dancing around to Roxy Music, and he's wearing these tight red jeans, and the way they're hugging his ass is making you insanely jealous. Which is odd, because you've never been jealous of an item of clothing before. KLAINE FLUFF


**This one's for LFKS for the prompt of something combining my neck fetish with Blaine's sexy dancing in red jeans in 3:05 – well, here ya go!**

There you are, draped across your bed reading Vogue, and you're talking about sex with Blaine, so you're meant to be feeling insecure and blushing like a maniac, but you're _not_. Well, you _are_ blushing like a maniac, but it's got nothing to do with the conversation – it's just, Blaine's dancing around to Roxy Music, and he's wearing these _tight _red jeans, and the way they're hugging his ass is making you insanely jealous. Which is odd, because you've never been jealous of an item of clothing before, but now you think you know how Romeo felt, even though red skinny jeans aren't quite as romantic as a glove.

Anyway, something about ripping clothes off spills out of your mouth, and you're lucky he's not looking at your face, because your eyes are firmly glued on that pert little ass of his, wriggling around in that red fabric and just begging to be squeezed. And you think he would have noticed the urge to rip those jeans off of him in your expression – you're certain it was pretty clear. And then he goes and says something about _masturbation, _and the mental images which suddenly flood your head are just _too hot_, so you bury your face in your magazine and shift uncomfortably on the bed, trying to find a position which doesn't display the sudden tightness in your pants as well as not squashing it.

You don't even catch the last bit he says before he's jumping onto the bed next to you and smacking his lips to yours with a loud 'mwah'. You think it was meant to be just a little peck, but you're so damn horny, and the feel of his lips on yours – you just can't help yourself. You let out a heady groan and you're grabbing the back of his neck to pull him closer to you. One of your hands is in his hair, whilst the other slides down his back to cup that too-perfect ass. You squeeze it lightly, and it must have been unexpected, because he jumps and yelps into your mouth. You swallow the sound greedily, drinking him in, and you smile a little – well, as much as you can with your tongue down his throat.

You notice him gasping for air, so you leave his mouth alone for a minute, but your lips never leave his skin, tracing along his jawbone, the line of his throat, pausing to suck a bruise into the little dip above his left collarbone. The skin of his neck is so soft and smooth that you can't stop kissing it - pressing your lips to it, drawing patterns with your tongue. You nip a little with your teeth, and the sound he lets out - _oh!_ So you do it again, and again, _and again_. He still hasn't stopped panting, and you realise that maybe that's because your hands are unconsciously kneading his buttocks, pressing the soft flesh and making him moan. You lick your lips at the sight of him, eyes fluttered shut in pleasure, writhing on your bed. That's a mental image you're going to want to keep for a _long _time. His eyes open, then, and you feel a blush stain your cheeks as he catches you watching him, because you're pretty sure he caught the look on your face this time. He doesn't say anything, though – he just reaches up and pulls you into a long kiss. It's not passionate and wild like before, it's slow and lazy and sweet. When your lips break apart, you snuggle into his side, both of you keeping a firm grip on each other.

"What was all that for?" he asks, and you can hear the smile in his voice, "not that I'm complaining or anything – just wondering. I thought we weren't granting our hands Visas south of the equator?"  
>"Well, it's your own fault, really," you reply, indignantly. "You, with your tight red jeans and your sexy dancing and your perfect little ass and all that talk of <em>masturbation <em>– you're lucky I don't take you here and now!" He chuckles and drops a kiss into your hair.  
>"That doesn't make me feel particularly lucky, to be honest," he says, still laughing, "but you know what does?" And he's serious now. "This." Then he's stroking the side of your face and you can feel yourself tearing up. "Having you, here, and just being able to hold you. Knowing that you're mine. That makes me feel like the luckiest boy in the world."<p>

You feel the tears trickle gently down your cheek, and you look up at him. You can't find any words to describe how much you love him, so you just look, and you hope that all the love and the joy is conveyed through the tears in your eyes. He smiles a little, and from the way his chin wobbles, you can see that he's on the verge of tears too. There's nothing more to say, though, so you cuddle further into his side, drying your tears on his shirt, and you think that Blaine's got some fierce competition for 'the luckiest boy in the world'.

**Thoughts?  
>xx<strong>


End file.
